


still love

by unhappyrefrain



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Coffee, Lowercase, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Requited Unrequited Love, Wings, and full of self-doubt, is it non-graphic? is it? idk, sandalphon is sad and gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappyrefrain/pseuds/unhappyrefrain
Summary: You’re a flood of light. He is flooding you with it. You are the reservoir of all the light he has given you.“You... you don’t have to ask,” you say. “I’m already yours. I’ve always been yours. Don’t make me say it again.”(Sandalphon lets Lucifer in. Or the illusion of Lucifer.)





	still love

**Author's Note:**

> [sorry about this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7l_AmPjfAkQ)
> 
> between wmtsb and paradise lost. sandalphon in his chrysalis. i was considering making this anonymous because i'm embarrassed even though i'm super shameless about writing outright porn in other fandoms HAHA. i wrote the smut first and then had to come up with a beginning so apologies in advance if it seems abrupt or detached (it totally does but idk how else to edit it.) also i wrote it in lowercase first, then capitalized it, then decided it was better in its original form, so... hm
> 
> the question of lucifer's presence is open ended. read it however you want to. i didn't think of an outright answer, even if sandalphon seems pretty sure of it. because, you know, he has minus 1 sense of self worth, and all that. we're looking through his eyes, after all, so decide for yourself if he's wrong.
> 
>  _seeing through the eyes of icarus_ is getting another installment soon btw. so don't worry. i didn't get too distracted (but i still can't stop with the icarus metaphors)

it is quiet here.

there are never birds, really. there is a wind, that moves the bushes, rustles the leaves and the fruits of the coffee trees, smooths down the grass in wide, gentle ripples. there is a sky, but there are never clouds. there is the smell of coffee. sharp, familiar, but worn into the wood, and now its scent is muddy with the dust and solitude of this place.

he told you to rest. so you rest. you don’t let yourself think about it. if you do, the scars on your back will start burning, and the same rift will open in your heart, and you will remember that you are not whole. that you have had to take, and take, and take, just to be worthy of his gaze, and even then—

you bite your lip. you have a new batch of coffee beans to prepare, a new roast to test. you pick a handful from the small paper bag, marked with the number 7. you’ve been measuring and labeling them like this, on a scale of 1 to 10 on how dark the roast is. you’ve noticed that the longer you roast them, the more oil comes to the surface of the beans, makes them glazed, makes your fingers smear what they touch, another way you dirty everything beautiful. and it makes them bitter. but bitter in the way you like, the deep way, the way that sends little shocks of sensation through your tongue.

that kind of bitter helps you forget.

 

and you do forget, for now.

 

you do the manual work of the hand grinder. you can feel the beans crack and crunch under the crank of your hand, between the burrs. it’s satisfying, the actual feeling. the sensory knowledge that the work you are doing is not in vain.

you try not to look at the amount you’ve ground, just keep grinding. keep working. it should be fine as long as you can feel it. as long as you know it is there.

time passes, but not really.

you stop grinding when all the beans in the top half have disappeared. it’s a thin grind now, fine but not too fine, and you are satisfied. you think maybe you’ll do a simple pour-over. lucifer liked to alternate between the pour-over and the press, but the press can be finicky, and doesn’t seem to get along with dark roasts. this way, you have more control.

you set the kettle and light the fire. you bustle around looking for the coffee filters, and the filter holder, and the mug. you wash the filter first, to get the paper taste out. when you manage to assemble all the implements, you unscrew the top of the hand grinder. you inhale, and pour the grounds into their paper cradle.

and then you wait.

when your mind starts to drift, you grab a whole bean from the bag and pop it into your mouth. the taste is bitter, it helps you forget, and you do forget—

 

— until he is here.

sometimes he comes, moves through that shaded garden, into your sanctuary, and you have to look away. you’ve been in the gentle dark of this cocoon so long that your eyes have not yet adjusted to that light. you don’t say anything. you try not to, every time, knowing you don’t really deserve his words, much less deserve to speak back. but you do make him a cup of coffee, unwilling to give up your tradition, the only thing you still share.

this time he comes close to you. usually he greets you, calls your name first. but you feel his presence before you see him, walking across the endless curve of the grass, and then into your garden, and then under the shade of the patio roof.

something is wrong, you think. you move to prepare a second mug for him, but then— a touch. thin warm fingers wrapping around your wrist.

“sandalphon,” he says.

the scars on your back begin to burn. a needle pierces the tissue, rends them open. you can’t catch your breath. he’s looking at you, _seeing_ you, and you want to

you want to

     fall into his chest, let him wrap you up, clutch at his shirt, at the ribbons that come loose around the bones of his wings, and cry—

     grab his face, make him look you in the eye, crash into him and press your lips to his, open yourself, cling with every part of you—

     wrench your wrist away and scream at him to _leave, just leave, why do you keep coming back, why won’t you punish me properly, i don’t deserve to even look upon your face so just—_

     disappear

 

a kettle begins to sing, piercing the silence between you.

you turn away. he lets you go.

 

you pour the water slowly over the filter, as he looks on. you are keenly aware he is watching you, but— no matter. the coffee blooms in the filter, opens like a flower, and aromatic steam rises into your face and rushes through your senses. this is the best part.

 

“it is the best part, isn’t it? the bloom.”

 

he reaches out with words. with glances. but not yet with pleas. he may still be too proud for it, but you want to make him desperate, just as you were desperate for him. so you say nothing, but let the water run through, to the bottom of the filter, leaving bubbling grounds behind.

you don’t have enough for another cup, and you know how he likes his. cream, not milk, and no sugar. gentle, with a hint of bite. never sweet. the way he always was: kind to you, because he had to be, but never truly loving you.

so you make this cup for him. you can always make more for yourself later, with another batch of beans, an even darker roast. you know you’ll need it, after this. the mug clatters against the small porcelain saucer.

he hasn’t moved. he hasn’t sat down. you freeze in place.

“sandalphon,” he says, again. as if he is waiting for a response. he keeps saying your name, and the low tone in his voice shakes you, but you don’t look at him. you set the cup and saucer down.

“it’ll get cold. sit down,” you tell him. you hope your voice is colder than your heart feels right now.

“i don’t want any. sandalphon, listen to me—”

you whip around. he lurches back, caught off guard almost— yes, _yes,_ you want to see him shaken, you want him to _feel_ — and you look at him. he blinks.

“if you didn’t come here to sit down and talk at me over coffee, then why are you here? why do you keep coming back?” your voice hardens, just as much as it takes to keep it from spiking. “you should be leaving me alone. this is my punishment, isn’t it? so why do you insist on pretending like nothing is wrong?”

“forgive me, sandalphon,” he says. the sound of his voice seems closer than usual. “but i’ve learned selfishness, in your absence. and i am too selfish not to need you.”

“you don’t need me. you’ve never needed me.”

“i do.”

he steps toward you. his hands find your waist. and you are lost to him.

 

* * *

 

he takes you back to your room. you follow him, in a haze, as he leads you with his hand around your wrist, before you collapse onto the ironframe bed, and he is upon you, bearing down onto you, and you feel—

trapped. blinded. alive. under his gaze, your body burns. you can smell the wax and feathers melting, too close to the sun. your mind clicks off. you can’t afford to question this, to deny this right now. afterwards, you know what will happen— you’ll scold him, you’ll send him away, and he will disappear over the curve of your little world, and you will be unsure if any of this was real— but for now, he is here, he is pressed against you, strong and warm and shining, and you can’t tear yourself from him.

has he really learned selfishness, as he said, since he took you into slumber? has he learned lust? in this world, just as it was, your body still responds like a physical form— more resistant to pain, you know, from the scientists’ repeated tests, countless centuries of torture, but to a gentle touch, it is nothing but crumbling parchment, a burning candle. and his body is— it’s there, it’s beautiful, he is always beautiful, and silver hair falls over his eyes as he looks upon you, laid out below him. his wings drape over you, a curtain of light sealing the two of you off from the world.

you feel vulnerable.

“sandalphon.”

his voice is low, resonant.

your body is wound up like a spring, rusted from years of disuse, ready to snap. but he touches you like you are something precious. like your hands are not those of a murderer, like they are as pure and shining as his own. he kisses down your neck, opens your shirt, bares the expanse of your chest. piece by piece he undresses you, takes you apart. his lips press to the slight ridge of your sternum, where it rises from your skin.

his warmth is in your bones.

 _lucifer_ , you think. _lucifer, lucifer, lucifer._

every emotion is distorted and foggy through the mirror of two thousand years. love and anger cloud into passion; frustration condenses on the glass, becoming tears that you quickly have to blink back. your legs squeeze and rub together; he spreads them apart, runs his thumb over the softness of your inner thigh.

“ah,” he breathes. “you really are, so beautiful.”

you could cry.

but you don’t.

 

he moves slowly. his hands take their time. opening you up, stroking you long and thorough, touching your face and your hips and your thighs. he works his way to the core of you, peels back every layer of defense. it’s been— a long time— and you don’t try to stop yourself when you cry out for him, your voice shaking, breathless.

“please,” he says. he whispers. “please.” as if he’s not the one about to give you everything you want, everything you feel like you don’t deserve.

“why are you...” _why are you the one begging for me, now?_

“please, sandalphon. let me... let me have you.”

he curls his fingers within you, and you feel sparks go off, something warm and familiar deep inside. you feel yourself twisting onto him, wordlessly craving, wishing. you’re a flood of light. he is flooding you with it. you are the reservoir of all the light he has given you.

“you... you don’t have to ask,” you say. “i’m already yours. i’ve always been yours. don’t make me say it again.”

he breathes in— a shaky, hiccupping breath. you can barely see through the glare of his wings, but you wonder if he’s crying. and then he presses against you, towards you, through you.

“open yourself to me, sandalphon.”

you don’t deny him.

once he’s inside you, everything else falls away, and you cling to him, your legs locking around his waist, your head thrown back as you feel him fill you. the realization hits you before the sensation does— this can’t be happening. he’s so far above you, so much more than you, and yet. and yet. he’s lowered himself to this level, to touching something so dirty, so unworthy of everything he is, and you try to wake up, before you realize you’ve never dreamed here.

this may not even be real. this may not even be him. he may not even be coming to visit you— it may only be an illusion that you can only imagine, only experience in the safety of this cocoon. he’s probably out there somewhere else, a concept rather than a physical form, covering the world like a blanket, overseeing everything, not thinking about you. but right now. he is real. and he touches you, moves inside you as if he actually loves you.

he leans down to kiss you, and you fall apart. you make a pitiful noise into his lips, sighing, whimpering. the stretch, the burn of him inside you is exquisite. like this, you’re flying, and the closer you get to that sun, the happier you are to burn before him. an offering on his altar. a sacrifice, given in the hopes of his blessing.

one of his hands reaches up to intertwine with yours. he rests his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder as he moves, deep and gradual, and everything you are seizes when he brushes over that perfect something, what he knows of you better than anyone. he created you like this, so of course he knows your body, understands what makes you writhe and cry out for him. his breaths come hot and hard against your ear. he’s lost his composure. you wonder if it was ever there.

this is the best way, to see him  
unravel,  
the way you always have.

he calls out your name. strained, now. a gasp. you tremble, your back arches, your legs shake. awash with pleasure, with the glow he has left on you. your body is a candle, your spine the lit wick, and you melt under him as every bone in your body gives out, every muscle locks up, every breath stolen from your lungs.

“lucifer,” you whimper, finally letting yourself say it, and you can feel him take in a sharp, shivering breath at the sound of his name on your lips. “lucifer, lucifer, luci— _aah_ ,” and you’re lost, to the torrent of storm and heat and fire that has been consuming you. his hand tightens in yours. he slips his other arm under the arch of your back, to feel the six scars there, like he’s making sure it’s really you— you who rebelled, who fell from his side the moment he took his eyes off you, you who lost yourself to grief and anger and ripped the wings out of his comrades’ backs just to have him come back to you— but it doesn’t hurt, nothing can hurt right now, not when he’s whispering your name and filling you, his grip on you white-knuckled, pulling you close for a few desperate, grinding movements before he stills.

 

and then it is quiet.

 

in your room, the smell of night, and coffee, and candlewax and burnt wings.

you close your eyes. and yet everywhere you look, there is light.

the six scars on your back feel less like scars when he touches them. they are the reminders of what you have been before: broken, evil, bitter. but he runs his hands over them anyway, cherishes them like the rest of you. the others called you a wretch, a failure, useless, disgusting, and you began to believe it— but right here, in this single moment, in lucifer’s arms, you are whole.

his wings wrap you, a chrysalis inside a cocoon. he touches his lips to your forehead, and brings you into rest. you are vaguely aware of him fading around you, and you know: he is still an illusion, the illusion he has always been to you. of course this would end. of course you will wait.

the light fades. in the dark, now, it’s easier to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (to be a painter  
> and cover all the blue  
> i would give up wanting you
> 
> but still the morning sun  
> will leak into my window when i'm done)


End file.
